


Second Kiss

by agirlsname



Series: A Study in Kissing [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff without Plot, Kissing, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21615688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: Sometimes it's not the first but the second kiss that blows your mind.Sequel to Five First Kisses, but since it's mostly a shameless snogging session it can probably be read as a standalone!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A Study in Kissing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1531154
Comments: 50
Kudos: 253





	Second Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure fluff that I wrote a couple of months ago just to get back into writing Johnlock - and writing in English - after a break. (And I was glad I'd done that when I got the idea for _Your Daughter_ a few weeks later, which I think came out as one of my best and most profound fics.)
> 
> My thanks goes to Akhenaten's Mummy for the beta - this is the 20th fic she's helped me with, the lunatic! Don't blame her for the occasional weird phrasing - I can be very stubborn.
> 
> And with this I wish you a merry Christmas - I'll see you again on New Year's Eve!

Sherlock does like the second kiss.

The hallway wall is solid behind him. Unyielding against his bony shoulderblades.

John is crowding him, hands braced on either side of his shoulders, chests almost touching. A hint of more to offer. And Sherlock wants it, oh, how he wants more. But his breath has stilled in his chest, caught on the crest of a silent gasp, trapping him in a way that makes him afraid to move.

John's lips are cool from the outside air.

John's cheek smells of rain and trains and elation.

The journey back to London was interminable. The seconds dawdled by, slow beyond boring. Shocking that such a thing is possible.

There was a new lustre to John's skin; there is no other way to describe it. Although it has been raining all day, John has been aglow as though touched by the sun. And something about the way he holds his body has shifted.

Sherlock has studied him out of the corner of his eye all day, trying to determine where the change lies.

The tiny smile nestled into the corner of John's mouth, yes. The way his pupils enlarge whenever their eyes meet. Predictable, to be expected (never mind that Sherlock had forgotten to expect it; it made his stomach swoop in pleasant surprise every time).

But there is something more, too. The very gravity seems to have changed; John's small body now pulls Sherlock closer to him. A tiny new planet. When boarding the train, Sherlock's hands kept drifting towards him, caught by the gravitational pull, tangled up in an inevitable orbit.

Sitting down, Sherlock's whole body tilted to the right as if trying to soak up the glow from the little soldier beside him.

It dawned on him that John's smile was an enigma in itself. The smile seemed to say that John knew something Sherlock did not. Sherlock has been aching to know what it is. Perhaps that is why he drifted ever closer; the illogical idea that touching John would let him find out.

John looked out the train window with quiet breath and bright eyes. Sherlock stared at him for seventeen minutes before finally taking his hand.

John smiled. Glanced at him briefly before looking back at the landscape outside.

John's hand is a marvel. Soft yet rough, small yet strong, firm yet delicate. Sherlock held it, and held it, squeezed and relaxed, swept his thumb over warm skin. He held it and marvelled and gave all of his fierce attention to the beautiful structure of muscle, bones, veins and skin in his grip.

And yet, soon that was not enough. Sherlock wanted _more_ , could barely stand not having more, although he could not tell what it was he needed.

He twisted restlessly in his seat. John noticed, and he must have deduced something from that because occasionally he smiled to himself when Sherlock squirmed.

Keeping a steady, grounding grip on John's hand, Sherlock took to watching John's mouth.

It looked even more wonderful now that Sherlock knew for a fact how soft it was. Did he? He did. The events of this morning were something of a blur, but of this he was certain. In fact, when he thought about it, John's mouth had been surprising in its softness.

John can make it look so grim, that mouth. Hard and commanding. Tense and disapproving. Sherlock had not comprehended the extent of what John had kept from him.

It is unfair. Unacceptable, really. Sherlock has a right to know everything about John. He is the one who has made a point of studying and cataloguing everything that John is. To keep John in his mind palace. To keep John _his_ , no matter what happens. And here is a whole new John that Sherlock has previously only made poor guesses about.

Forcing himself not to squirm, Sherlock let his head fall back onto the headrest. He closed his eyes and unwrapped the memory of this morning. Sifted through every fine detail he had observed. Shelved it carefully into his mind palace. Solidified it. Immortalised it.

By the time they rolled into London, Sherlock had grown accustomed to John's hand in his. His breathing was steady, his heart calm. Without the nervousness he could _feel_ John's hand.

They got off the train, Sherlock's hand drifting unbidden to John's lower back. John looked up at him, and Sherlock looked back, hoping John would understand the desires he didn't fully understand himself. John just smiled at him. It was both maddening and reassuring.

The air in the cab prickled at his skin. Even the cabbie seemed to shift uncomfortably in the loaded silence.

John unlocked the door of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock stepped inside, John closed it behind them and suddenly Sherlock was crowded against the wall.

Now he can feel _everything_.

The kiss is light and soft. John's lips are still chapped; Sherlock can feel small ridges against his own mouth. He thinks, deliriously, that he loves them.

John's mouth is just barely touching his, yet the kiss seems to stimulate every nerve ending in Sherlock's lips, making him hold completely still in reverence.

The space between them quivers with heat; dares them to step forward.

John's hand is back in his hair. He grips it gently in his fist. Sherlock's knees are melting.

Everything is acute in a way it wasn't in the hotel bed. Sensations flood Sherlock's consciousness and blend with the data he has filed from this morning until they settle in his mind, his bones, his blood. Making sense of it all, infusing it with reality.

John steps into the open front of Sherlock's coat. His chest against Sherlock's feels like every drug Sherlock has ever craved; Sherlock feels his throat make an involuntary sound. He is just about to be mortified about it when John rises onto his toes, stomach sliding along Sherlock's pelvic area, humming in answer.

And then there is the distinct touch of the tip of a tongue to Sherlock's bottom lip.

Sherlock opens his mouth on a trembling breath. But John is not in a hurry. He tastes Sherlock's lips, sliding them slowly between his own. Caressing kisses that gradually claim more of his mouth, gradually move deeper. When their tongues finally touch, a persistent heat is rising in Sherlock's cheeks.

John shifts subtly. A few inches to the left puts his right thigh just barely between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock tries to pretend this isn't unbearably arousing.

It is a shocked sort of arousal. Sherlock is amazed that it can feel so good; this morning he mostly felt tense and awkward, and did not expect things to take this wonderful turn. What was it that John said? About needing to process the first kiss so you can relax and enjoy it next time? John is an underestimated genius, clearly.

Sherlock is dizzy. Short of breath. Is it supposed to be this difficult to breathe? Breathing should occur automatically, shouldn't it? Sherlock has to consciously make the air pass in and out through his nose, and it steals precious attention from the feel of John's slick tongue inside his mouth.

Details start to slip his mind. At one point, he becomes aware of holding John's head between his hands. Crushing John against him as though they aren't close enough, as though they aren't actively pressing themselves against each other. He wonders then if he is doing any of this right. He wonders if he should do something more for John, _be_ something more for John, and he wonders how on earth he will know what that would be. He wonders if he should loosen his grip.

John doesn't seem to mind, though.

The pressure in his lungs forces Sherlock to break away for a gasp of air. Their lips part with an exaggerated kissing sound. Once more he forgets to feel embarrassed when John's soft nose nuzzles across his cheek and into the curls above Sherlock's ear.

“ _You_ ”, he whispers.

Inexplicably, this causes Sherlock's mouth to fall open. The breath he fought to catch rushes out of him. A tingle in his lower belly swirls downwards.

Suddenly it is unbearable that John is still wearing his jacket. It makes him angular and stiff, when in reality John is anything but. Sherlock wants to know the exact places in which John is soft, where he is solid, where he is rounded and smooth and where he is sharp and hard.

“John”, he says. His voice is rough in a way it has never been before, taking him by surprise; John's name sounds more like an exclamation of passion. “Can we-”

His speech cuts of, his train of thought screeching to a halt. John has just folded his coat collar aside and put his mouth on Sherlock's throat.

“Hmmm, what?” he asks, breath hot on Sherlock's sensitive skin.

“Can we- _oh_.”

John sighs happily at his neck, placing another kiss there.

“John, I- I wanted to-” His breath stutters and he tries again. “ _John_ \- I can't _think_ , what is this?!”

John chuckles. He tips his head back, beaming at Sherlock. The mere sight of his smug grin makes Sherlock roll his eyes.

“What are you so happy about?”

“I made Sherlock Holmes unable to think.”

Sherlock wants to be affronted, but John's eyes sparkle. He looks beautiful like this.

Sherlock draws a quick breath and says before he can get distracted again: “Can we go upstairs?”

“Yeah, let me just-”

John leans in for a quick kiss. Only it isn't quick. Sherlock's lips yield under the touch and John melts into his mouth. Sherlock's hips press forward in a quest for warmth even though he is much too warm already.

Climbing the stairs is shockingly uncomfortable. Sherlock has defeated these stairs drunk, drugged, and once with a fractured patella; he never would have imagined it would be so difficult to do the same while simply aroused.

But there is a flavour to this particular case of arousal with which he has been unfamiliar until now. He has never felt quite this hot; his muscles have never had this useless liquid quality. His groin has never felt quite so full, and he has never lost his grip on coordination like this without even being interested in regaining it. He is only interested in halting on the steps, turning around and wrapping himself around the little soldier with the intense gravity pull behind him.

He doesn't. But John must feel something of the same, because on the landing his hand settles briefly on Sherlock's hip.

The idea that maybe _Sherlock_ has the same gravitational pull on _John_ makes his face heat in a not entirely unpleasant way.

The door shuts with an intimately quiet click.

Suddenly Sherlock feels hesitant. Cold air lingers around his neck where he was previously protected by the coat collar. He feels unsteady without his coat. But he made the decision to hang it on the hook and now here he is, strangely bare in his tailored suit.

He awkwardly folds his hands in front of him just to have something to do with them. (And maybe a little to conceal his trouser front – _maybe_.) He looks at John when he feels it can no longer be avoided.

John is smiling at him, which is still reassuring but also just a tiny bit terrifying. He silently takes Sherlock's hand and leads him to the sofa.

At first, Sherlock is sceptical of this idea. There are not enough points of contact between them when sitting side by side, and he has to twist uncomfortably in order to kiss John. But when he gives up and lets himself slide down in his seat, and John follows him, he remembers with a fresh wave of warmth that John is a _genius_.

The sofa is not very spacious. This fact works tremendously well in Sherlock's favour. There is no way they can both fit on there without clinging tightly to each other; there is nowhere to go but burrowing into the warmth of John's knitted jumper.

The limited range of motion makes something light up in Sherlock's nervous system, starting at his neck and shuddering down all the way to his toes. The softness of the sofa cushions is familiar beneath Sherlock's back but the weight of John's body, half on top of him, is decidedly not. The contrast is dizzying.

The living room walls watch, with their old wallpaper and bullet holes and yellow paint, as Sherlock's existence takes a most wonderful turn. His old life witnesses his new life take shape daringly right in front of the mundane living room clutter.

Perhaps 221B will always be the same. Or perhaps it will be unrecognisable from this day on.

John is entirely on top of him now. At some point, Sherlock's legs have wrapped around John's hips. He cannot for the life of him remember making such a bold decision, but he keeps clinging to John with strong legs, wanting him irrationally closer.

His heartbeat is loud in his own ears. He is sweating in his thin shirt. He got out of the suit jacket at some point, thank God. And John, John has taken off his jumper, and he is burning hot through the soft cotton of his vest.

John's head is bent, open-mouthed kisses covering Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's legs tighten involuntarily around John, his head falling back. Oh, this is almost too good. The tingle in his groin is too insistent.

John stops. Sherlock struggles to catch his breath.

 _Don't stop_ , he almost says, but then he wants to change it to _It's too much_.

John's hands stroke steadily up and down the sides of his torso, and Sherlock realises that he is trembling. He focuses on breathing, and when the trembling subsides John lifts his head.

He looks rumpled in a both adorable and enticing way. Something unbearably tender blooms in Sherlock's chest. John toys with a curl on Sherlock's head before tucking it behind his ear.

“Hello”, he mumbles, voice lower and deeper than Sherlock has heard it before.

“Hello.”

John looks at him. An entire night sky fits into his clear eyes. He is about to say something more, but Sherlock loses patience before he has the chance. He lifts his head from the cushion, sealing their lips again.

He feels cooler now. He can breathe better. His legs are relaxed and his body is mostly obeying his will.

But the kisses grow gradually hotter again by some secret scientific law (he needs to calculate it at a later point). His heart speeds; blood rushes into his extremities. His legs cling and he presses his hips up, and then he's trembling again and has to stop. He balances on such a thin line between what he needs and what would be too much to handle at this point.

Turns out that line is at once an unbearable and a delicious place to be.

The doorbell rings.

Outside interference, Sherlock thinks, would be about the only thing that could break this repeating cycle of _don't-stop-it's-too-much_.

Their lips part. They look at each other and hold their breath. Listen to the sounds of Mrs Hudson shuffling through the hallway. Wait for her call:

“Boys! You've got another one!”

They spring into motion as one. John starts wrestling with the jumper he threw to the floor in a tangle. Sherlock snatches up his suit jacket and slips into the bathroom.

When the door shuts behind him he falls back against it, tipping his head back and just breathing.

He hears the client tread the stairs, hears John's polite greeting and offering of tea. Sherlock blows his fringe off his sticky forehead, deciding that he can afford a moment alone; his whole life did just irrevocably change, after all.

He can hardly believe that this is happening to him. Is he still Sherlock Holmes? Did John Watson just kiss him for… God, it must have been at least half an hour, surely? He checks his watch.

An hour. An _hour_.

A small smile awakens on his lips. He pushes off the door and approaches the mirror above the sink.

The sight of his own face like this almost startles him.

His irises are a clear green around huge black pupils. His hair is disarrayed in a way that any idiot could deduce the reason for; not the mussed chaos of sleep, but the dishevelled mess of loving hands. His always-so-pale cheeks are red, the blooms of colour on his cheekbones making him look acutely alive. And his lips, his lips are almost pink, the colour standing out on his face as though he's wearing lipstick.

He looks radiant. That small smile is impossible to eliminate, and it smooths out the lines and worries on his skin. He has never looked quite so young, he has never looked so… _lovely_.

Sherlock puts his hands in his hair, half-heartedly arranging it into something less obvious. He can do nothing about the colour on his cheeks, though. Everyone who sees him within the next fifteen minutes will know.

Sherlock is still smiling when he exits the bathroom to greet the new client.

Sherlock's mind is dancing. A light allegro in major key. Data is perched upon the notes, facts cradled in his outstretched hands, deductions appearing underneath his feet to set him off into the next position.

The rooms of his mind palace are illuminated by an unseen source of light. The air has a luminous quality; the hues hint at gold rather than the common grey. The dark corners seem to have soaked up the glow of John's skin, infusing it into the very foundation of the construction.

Sunlight beams through the windows, warming Sherlock's skin as he reaches for the next conclusion – allongé. It's effortless, it's exhilarating.

John's smile bathes the mind palace in reckless light.


End file.
